1 Poetry

This isn’t a poem;
I wouldn’t do that to you.
Not now.
No rhyme can make this reason easy:
“invincible while young…
but the option of tomorrow
don’t look so good…”
Sorry, man. I don’t facebook.
But I know what you saw
when you posted that....

I have lived too long;
all paths converge in
open field,
yawning their surrender
into twilight sky,
like a dog in a love
song:
The yellow fog of Eliot
in "Prufrock;"
I've come to the clearing
much too late,
and curl upon
withered wild flowers
called fate.